Salus
by Victoria Bitter
Summary: Missing scene from "Retribution": Lieutenant Bush learns the meaning of true loyalty.


Salus, by Victoria Bitter

**Salus**  
_by _[__][1]Victoria Bitter

Kennedy didn't have long. 

Lieutenant Bush could hear the rhythm of his breathing across the cell, indeed, had listened to it steadily for the better part of a week. It wasn't as though there was much else that he would care to listen to, really. Neither of them felt particularly inclined to speak, for words brought pain, deep and thick and throbbing through the body like cannon fire through the hull of a ship. The heavy tropical air carried other sounds that were strange, almost unreal, like the calling of the vivid nightmare-colored birds and the rustling of unseen animals in the underbrush. The flies buzzed relentlessly, but that was the sound of mortality, of death and decay, and thus the sound he least wanted to hear. So the sound he listened to - the only sound he was willing to acknowledge hearing - was the steady, pained inhalation and exhalation from the other cot. 

The question, though, was how much longer that rhythm would continue. Bush refused to allow the comforting illusion that it would be indefinite, and he doubted even Kennedy himself would harbour such easy, ridiculous lies. No, Kennedy knew better than he, better than Dr. Clive even the harsh realities of his wound. His breathing was more shallow, the tiny hitches from pain more frequent, the ominous buzzing of the flies louder. Kennedy had to know, just as Bush knew, that the pistol ball had not wounded him. It had killed him. 

Even now, there was a definite change in the sound of his breathing. It was slower, more deliberate, as if he were gathering up a last few lungfuls of air. Was he preparing to finally let go? There was the rustle of movement against the sweaty sheets, and Bush turned his head, surprised. Until now, the only times Kennedy had moved more than his head were when the Doctor told him to, or when Mr. Hornblower came. 

The younger man held his body rigidly, his back straight, his palms pressed flat into the mattress beside him. His lips were thin and white, his eyes squeezed tightly shut as his chin jutted towards the ceiling. Air slipped between his lips with remarkable steadiness, and Bush slowly turned away again. Clearly, Kennedy was fighting the inevitable, but it he knew it would be futile. Best to let the poor lad die in peace. 

There was one more breath, deep and slow, but Kennedy did not fall silent. Instead, he spoke. His voice was weak and low, but the words were clear. "Mr. Bush…will you please call Dr. Clive…and ask him to bring my uniform." 

"Your uniform?" Unable to believe his ears, he pushed himself up on one elbow, ignoring the cry of protest from his own wounds.

Kennedy still lay motionless, his face still resolutely towards the ceiling, eyes still clamped shut. "My dress uniform, if you would, please. I would ask myself, but I fear…I fear I lack…volume." 

"Why in God's name do you need a uniform?" 

As suddenly as if a noose had been tightened, the youthful face snapped to the side, staring straight at him. The intensity, the sheer animal desperation in the blue eyes was like a physical blow, and Bush drew back. "Just ask. Please. My uniform. My dress uniform." A droplet of sweat rolled down one pallid, fever-patched cheek, as though his face were weeping what his eyes refused. 

He nodded carefully, unable to quite believe the mysterious conviction he was facing. "All right, Mr. Kennedy, don't exhaust yourself." 

There was a sigh, and Kennedy suddenly relaxed, sinking deep into the mattress, his eyes closing again as his body seemed to fold in on itself. Perhaps he had fainted, or even fallen into a fevered sleep, but somehow Bush didn't think so. He was simply saving himself, saving himself for whatever he wanted to do with his uniform. Did he simply want to die in it? He had heard of similar things, of retired soldiers and sailors asking to be buried in their old uniforms. Possibly Kennedy sensed himself dying and wanted to depart fully appointed as a Lieutenant in His Majesty's Royal Navy. Surely, there was nothing wrong with that. 

He pushed himself to a sitting position, "Marine!" The guard's face appeared at the door, and Bush assumed his most commanding tone. "Fetch Dr. Clive at once, and instruct him to bring Mr. Kennedy's dress uniform. Tell him that it is extremely important. Go!" The face vanished. He waited a moment to make sure that the guard had obeyed his instructions, but his chest throbbed wickedly, and the room began to swim before his eyes. 

Slowly, trying not to aggravate the slashes any further, he lowered himself back to the bed, breathing hard. He blinked twice, swallowing hard to belay the sense of nausea that was beginning to threaten. Sitting up had been well enough. He had done that before - if carefully attended, it didn't pull too hard on the stitching - but shouting was more than he should have done, and his body was reminding him of it in no uncertain terms. 

"Thank you, Mr. Bush." 

He didn't turn. "You are welcome." Then there was silence again, broken only by the buzz of the flies and the sounds of two men breathing - one evenly and almost too slowly, the other clipped and hard. He wasn't certain how long they lay there before the footsteps sounded down the corridor, accompanied by Clive's rugged tones demanding that the young guard explain exactly why Mr. Bush would have made such an odd request. 

Taking care not to anger his wounds again, Bush sat up to greet the Doctor, who, thankfully, carried a bundle of dark blue and white wool over one arm. His face was set in angry confusion, and Bush could already see a slight flush to his cheeks that seemed to have nothing to do with the Kingston heat. The stress of the trial must have called him to the flask early. "Dr. Clive." 

"What's going on, Mr. Bush? Mr. Kennedy?" He scanned the room, as if expecting an ambush from the two wounded men. Bush almost laughed at the suspicion in the old man's eyes. Like this, away from Sawyer's maddened authority, it seemed rather silly.

"I require my uniform, Doctor." The strength of Kennedy's voice surprised him. It was clear now what he had been saving his energy for, and Bush had to admit that it was a truly masterful performance. The young Lieutenant raised himself up on his elbows without the slightest waver, staring steadily at the Doctor, his voice clear and full. "I will be attending the trial today."

For a few seconds, they locked eyes, then Clive turned away, moving brusquely towards the door. "You'll do no such thing. I'm getting you some more medicine, boy, you're delirious." 

"Do you really hate him that much, Doctor? Does he deserve to die?" The words froze Clive in his tracks. Kennedy was sitting fully upright now, the short, panting rhythm to his breathing the only sign of the pain that must have been raging at the movement. There were four men in that hold. Don't you think at least one should survive?" 

Bloody hell. Bush felt as though someone had just tipped a bucket of ice over his head. Kennedy wanted to do it. He was going to take the blame and hang for it. 

The thought was staggering, though the question of guilt or innocence never crossed his mind. It didn't matter, really. The tribunal had its scapegoat already in Hornblower, and they would not be deprived of their blood sport. Someone would hang for what they had all done. For a moment, he was tempted to protest, but he realized that through his own morbid logic, Kennedy had found the only solution to this black mess. Too many had died - all good men - and if a dying man could manage a single survivor out of the tragedy of the Renown, it was an act to be saluted, not prohibited. 

Clive did not turn, said nothing, but the gray-wigged head bowed slightly, and Kennedy pressed on. "I'm not asking you to say anything. Just give me my uniform, and come with me…" Now Clive did turn, blunt refusal in his eyes, but the Lieutenant didn't pause. "… as I fear that I may need your assistance when I am finished. I have… limited strength." 

There was a long pause. Kennedy did not back down, but Bush could see that it was wearing on him. Was Clive simply intending to wait until the younger man collapsed? Finally, he moved, slowly setting the bundle of clothing on the very end of the cot. "I will wait outside, Mr. Kennedy." Then he left. 

The two remaining men stared at the uniform as though it were some strange foreign animal. The cruel challenge was clear. Though Clive was not brutal enough to directly condemn Kennedy, he would not help, basing his hopes on the frailty of a mortally wounded man. Hoping, perhaps even, that Kennedy would kill himself with the exertion and be done with it. Pure cowardice. 

He would not let it succeed.

Bush stood, steadying himself for a moment on the wall before moving as quickly as he could over to the other cot. Kennedy was still sitting upright, as if unsure or unable to move either backwards or forwards. His tangled hair tumbled discordantly over his shoulders, and Bush gathered it up in his hand, yanking the ribbon from his own hair and wrapping it around the queue to secure it. The result wasn't pretty, but it was neat. He took two more steps to the foot of the bed and picked up the kerchief, turning to face Kennedy, who stared at him in stunned disbelief. "What are you doing?" 

The wounds were burning badly now. He needed to move quickly before he tore them open again. If that happened, he knew he might pass out from the pain and shock. "I heard stories about you, Mr. Kennedy…Mr. Hornblower, as well." He looped the black fabric around Kennedy's neck. The other man brought his hands up slowly, tying the knot himself as Bush reached back to the pile and fetched out the vest. "That you were broken in a Spanish prison. That you tried to die. I didn't think I could respect a man who'd had his spirit broken. I thought such things were beyond mending, and I had… concerns about serving with you." Kennedy made a sound that seemed half a laugh, half a choking bleat of pain, and he continued quickly. "But my fears were ill-founded. You and Mr. Hornblower are the two bravest men with whom I have ever been privileged to serve."

"Spirits are like bones, Mr. Bush." A thin smile appeared on Kennedy's lips as he gingerly slipped his arms through the holes of the vest, gasping in pain when Bush pulled it together to button the brightly polished buttons. A red stain appeared on the white fabric of the vest, and he averted his eyes. He didn't want to think about it. "Badly healed, they're never the same. Well attended, I like to believe they mend stronger than before." 

Bush lifted the dark blue Lieutenant's jacket, not so much as the next piece of the uniform, but to hide the blood spreading scarlet on the white. "Yours was clearly attended by an expert, sir."

He could see Kennedy's arm trembling as he lifted it towards the sleeve, and he took the wrist in his hand, supporting and guiding it. The pulse fluttered under his fingers, and he looked into Kennedy's face again, expecting to see him on the verge of collapse. Instead, his expression seemed calm, even bemused. Only the tension at the edges of the eyes and the sweat running rivulets down the flushed skin spoke of pain or exertion. "The son of a doctor, I'm told."

"Is that why you…" He took the other hand, guiding it around to the second sleeve while trying to avoid brushing the bright stain that marked Kennedy's wound. 

"No." The word split the air like a whip. That hellish intensity had returned to Kennedy's usually soft blue eyes, and he froze Bush with his gaze, drilling the words through the back of his skull. "It has to be done." 

He finished dressing Kennedy in silence. Jacket. Stockings. Breeches. Belt. Shoes. They both needed to conserve their strength for what lay ahead, and by the time Bush had buckled the silver buckles on the shoes, both men were clearly feeling the strain. Bush wanted badly just to lie down and breathe easy for a few minutes. A few minutes would be all it would take for the two cuts across his chest and belly to calm, to allow him easy movement again that wasn't accompanied by this breath-snatching fire. 

Yet he couldn't stop. He couldn't stop as long as Kennedy kept going, and despite the tremours of pain that were shuddering through him with greater and greater frequency, and despite the dark, wet patch that had subtly stained his uniform jacket, he showed no signs of giving in. Indeed, Kennedy seemed to be tapping some inner reservoir of strength that seemed almost inhuman…a reserve of pure willpower that was overtaking the weakness of his body by the moment, rendering him stronger as his final task drew near. 

Fully uniformed at last, Kennedy closed his eyes, then planted both hands solidly beside himself on the mattress and rose smoothly to his feet, standing without any sign of unsteadiness. Bush fought the urge to shake his head and dispel the dream. Surely this couldn't be the man whose last breaths he was counting a few minutes prior. This fine young officer, with the strong jaw and golden hair, with eyes flashing determination and broad shoulders held back and even, feet planted firm as oaks upon the floor…this couldn't be a dying man. 

But it was, and he knew it, and by the desperation thinly visible in his eyes, Kennedy knew it too. Despite the outward solidity of his stance, Bush knew that his fellow Lieutenant was masking what had to be excruciating pain, and he bit his lip, ignoring the fire in his own ribs as he slung one arm across Kennedy's shoulders for support. He would be set right with a few minutes rest. It would be ridiculous to give in to his own relatively minor injury in the face of this. 

Together, they moved towards the door, but there Kennedy shrugged off the aid, turning to him with an expression that, more eloquently than any words, offered thanks yet refused further assistance. He then turned to the barred entrance to their cell and spoke in a voice that - had he not known better - Bush would have taken as belonging to a completely healthy man. "Dr. Clive…I am ready." 

The Doctor didn't come to the door, which Bush felt a pity. He would have liked to see the look on the old man's face when he found Kennedy in full uniform, nearly glowing with pure force of will and ready to give his life and his honor for his friend. Instead of Clive, it was the young marine who opened the door, but even his face registered shock at the sight before him, the eerie wraith-like quality of a dead man waiting patiently. 

The door opened, and Kennedy took a step to leave. Bush took a deep breath, pulling himself up to parade attention. "Mr. Kennedy…" he paused, faltered, hesitant to use the other man's Christian name, yet hating the cold formality of the name by which the hangman would address him. "…Archie."

Slowly, Kennedy turned, his face expressionless, but a calm curiosity apparent in his eyes. Bush met those eyes evenly, his back straightened still further, his shoulders drew back, and his heels pulled together as he nodded a simple salute. "Godspeed."

To his amazement, a smile broke across Kennedy's face, bright and boyish and seeming to verge on laughter itself. "Thank you, Mr. Bush." 

He allowed a slight smile of his own. "It must be done." 

The smile broadened further, and Kennedy seemed almost joyful as he turned again. "So it must." With a deep breath that was half a sigh, he stepped through the doorway and left to die. 

The pain seemed to have given up its protests - shamed, he thought - and it was with a sense of numbness that Bush returned to his cot, settling himself into the lumpy mattress. It was strangely quiet without the sound of Kennedy's breathing, but he knew he would have to grow accustomed to it, accustomed to the fact that he would never come to know the courageous and quick-witted Lieutenant as a friend and comrade, and that Hornblower would lose a man with whom it was said he had crossed the gates into hell and back. 

But it wasn't a surprise. He had known that death was coming for days now, ever since Clive stopped commenting on the state of Kennedy's wound. The unexpected visits of death's black hand were all too common among the Royal Navy, touching the young and the old, the brave and the cowardly with equal readiness, and he should have been ready for it. Archie Kennedy was dying, that couldn't be helped, but what he had chosen to do with his last hours would cheat death of a second victim. 

Kennedy didn't have long.

But he had long enough.

The End

"Greater love hath no man than he who lays down his life for a friend."  
John 13:15

   [1]: mailto:voyagerbabe@hotmail.com



End file.
